


(A Cup of Proper Coffee) In A Copper Coffee Pot

by Edoraslass



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Anthropomorphic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:23:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edoraslass/pseuds/Edoraslass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once he had companions, small cups made of tin-lined copper, like he is, but over the years, they have all been lost, in one way or another, until it is just Arthur the coffee pot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(A Cup of Proper Coffee) In A Copper Coffee Pot

**Author's Note:**

> SO VERY AU, anthropomorphic personification, traitorous rodents, flatigious abuse of the words "quite" and "coffee", a little Steadfast Tin Soldiery
> 
> For a prompt on the kinkmeme

~*~

The words “Arthur Foundry” are embossed upon him, and so that is his name, Arthur Foundry. Once he had companions, small cups made of tin-lined copper, like he is, but over the years, they have all been lost, in one way or another, until it is just Arthur the coffee pot. 

He sits on a shelf amidst a number of teapots – one with a blue willow pattern who never stops chattering about the war, a mischievous Yixing pot shaped like a koi, a shy blue beehive, a Brown Betty who is quite full of herself, for she sees the most use and considers herself rather important. 

Arthur is battered, with many small dings and dents, but he bears these scars proudly. Once he was used every day, by an airship captain with unruly grey hair and a great mustache, who was kind, and kept Arthur well-scrubbed, if not properly shined. He never used any other coffee pot. Arthur can not remember his name.

Then that man went away, and Arthur found himself here. Arthur is not sure where “here” is, although he must assume it is England, for the man who lives in this place has a British accent. This man – he had introduced himself as Eames – never uses Arthur, for he prefers tea, but he does talk to Arthur.

This had confused Arthur at first, for the grey-haired man never talked to him, but gradually Arthur came to realize that Eames talks to all of his belongings. He thanks the stove for the flame, tells the cast-iron skillet he’s sorry if he burns his food when cooking, compliments the teapots on how lovely and charming they are. 

Eames tells Arthur how handsome he is, as well, and apologizes for not using him. “ I’ve never quite managed the knack of making coffee,” Eames will say as he is giving Arthur a weekly go-over with copper polish, “ most always had someone else to tend to it for me. But you are a gorgeous thing, aren’t you? I’m very lucky that Uncle left you to me.”

The Brown Betty, jealous of Eames’ attentions, is always even more haughty than usual after Arthur is returned to the shelf, gleaming gold-red in the sunlight filtering through the window, but Arthur pays her no mind. She is made of clay, and one clumsy fumble could send her crashing to the floor. He’s been dropped many times, even once kicked by a horse, and is only a little the worse for wear.

~*~

Eames often wears a long blue coat with many brass buttons, gold braid, and epaulets on the shoulders, which tells Arthur that he is a sailor. Usually this coat has been discarded or has not yet but put on when Eames comes into the kitchen, for this is his home and there is no reason that he should be expected to remain in full uniform when he is at his ease.

Even in just his linen shirt and breeches, however, he is the very picture of dignified. The man with the grey hair was not so well-presented; his goggles and long, flowing coat were always all over dust, and although Arthur does not hold the opinion that one is not respectable if one’s clothes are not immaculate, he is admiring of Eames’ appearance. He is particularly fond of the line of Eames’ calf under white hose, although he is not quite certain why.

He is also admiring of Eames’ career; he hears details from the other things in the kitchen. The stove’s poker set, the coffee grinder, and a battered old tin mug were with him shipboard; occasionally they will reminisce about their days at sea, and Arthur learns that Eames was in a number of battles, making a very brave showing and winning commendations.

Now Eames no longer goes to sea with the frequency he once did; now he has an office in the Admiralty, and although Arthur does not quite know what that means, it sounds very impressive.

~*~

Eames appears in the kitchen with a cheerful, “Good morning, everyone,” every day; he briefly touches all the teapots and Arthur, as if to let them know he’s aware of their presence. He takes several minutes to decide which teapot to use, and he is conscientious about making certain each gets to hold his breakfast tea at least once a week.

“I shouldn’t want any of you to feel I have a favourite,” he tells them, taking down the blue beehive, “You’re all marvelous.”

Observation has taught Arthur to gauge Eames’ mood by which pot he chooses: the blue willow when he is feeling homesick, the Yixing when he is cheerful, the beehive when he is contemplative. Brown Betty is chosen when Eames is in neither a good nor bad mood, or when he is preoccupied. She is used almost every evening, when Eames comes home at the end the day, to hold his tea before and after dinner. She has taken this to mean that Eames values her more than anyone else, and it has gone to her head.

~*~

One day, Eames comes into the kitchen looking very excited. “Arthur!” he says, holding up a small bag made of burlap. “Guess what I’ve found for you!”

The aroma tells Arthur that the bag holds coffee beans, and if he had breath to catch, he would catch it and hold it tight.

“Now the rest of you beauties should not be jealous.” Eames’ words are directed at the teapots, as if he’d heard the murmur of discontent. “Arthur deserves to be put to use as much as any of you do. Arthur,” he takes Arthur off the shelf, almost reverently, “you must be patient with me, it has been a long while since I made coffee, but I shall do my best not to muck this up.” 

Arthur knows it is ridiculous to feel such anticipation, but he can not help himself. He watches closely as Eames puts the beans in the grinder and begins to work the handle, smiles when the grinder is giddy with joy at being used again after so long.

Eames has only turned the handle three times, however, when there is a knock at the door, and so he sets the grinder back down on the sideboard, and leaves the kitchen.

“You are not as important as all that,” the Brown Betty says spitefully. “He does not like coffee, never has, and he will most likely have you melted down once he tastes that bitter stuff.”

Arthur says nothing in reply, but her words hurt. He can only do what he is made to do, after all, and while he does not think Eames would discard him for serving his purpose, he frets that Eames will not talk to him any longer, if he does not like the coffee Arthur makes.

~*~

The sun has gone down before Eames returns. “I am so sorry, Arthur,” he says, and he looks very weary. “I shall have to put you aside until breakfast; it is far too late to be drinking coffee.” He puts Arthur back on the shelf, leaves the dejected coffee grinder where it is, turns out the lamps, and departs the kitchen.

All is quiet, then presently the beehive whispers, “Don’t listen to her. Everyone knows that she is only jealous because her finish doesn’t shine like yours.”

Arthur smiles his gratitude, saying, “And your shade of blue quite puts her in the shade,” and the beehive is so flustered by the flattering remark that she can not even say thank you.

~*~

It is late that same night when Arthur hears the Brown Betty muttering to someone; most likely the gold-rimmed bone china pot, they are rather alike in thinking themselves above the others.

He finds that she is not talking to the bone china, however, when a big black rat climbs up on the shelf, and, with a shove of his paws, knocks Arthur to the wooden floorboards. Arthur lays there, dazed; the pin which holds his lid has been knocked out, and he can see where his lid has rolled under the stove. 

Then the rat is staring down at him with beady eyes that shimmer like lamp-oil, and Arthur is appalled when the rat wraps its scaly tail around his handle, and begins labouriously dragging Arthur towards the dumbwaiter. “What are you doing?” Arthur exclaims; he can hear the teapots and the coffee grinder murmuring in distress. “Where are you taking me?”

“He will not even notice you are gone,” Brown Betty calls, vindictive. “Upstart copper American.” 

Arthur tries to make himself heavier, but either it does not work or the rat is stronger than he seems, for the rat is not even slowed down. It simply continues on its way, climbing up a kitchen-stool in front of the open dumbwaiter, banging Arthur into the stool’s legs with every movement. 

Once the rat has reached its destination, it crawls inside, drops Arthur on the bottom panel, then scampers outside into the shaft, and Arthur knows beyond a doubt what it is going to do next: it is going to gnaw through the ropes that hold the dumbwaiter in place and send him crashing into the cellar.

~*~

The dumbwaiter hits the bottom of the shaft heavily, and after Arthur regains himself, he thinks that it will not be that bad. Eames will notice he is gone, no matter what Brown Betty thinks; he will search high and low and, even if he doesn’t find Arthur right away, will eventually come into the cellar for a bottle of wine and see Arthur lying on the hard-packed floor.

He does not reckon on the perfidy of the rat, however, for shortly the rat appears, takes a grip on Arthur’s handle, and begins dragging him again. “Why are you doing this?” Arthur wants to know, but the rat only shoots him an evil grin, will not answer, and Arthur is starting to be afraid. Arthur has never been afraid before, has not had reason, but there is something about the notion of being drowned that he finds unspeakably frightening. 

He is dragged for what seems a very long time; out of the cellar, into the street, where, to his horror, the rat drops him into the gutter and uses his nose to push Arthur towards a storm drain. It has been raining quite heavily over the past few days, the drain is quite full of rushing water, and if he topples, Arthur will be swept away with no chance of recovery.

The rat speaks for the first time. “He don’t hate coffee, you know.” His voice is low and hissing. “Used to have it every day when he was off campaignin’, stopped drinkin’ it once he came back. ‘S why she don’t want you round no more; she don’t want him likin' coffee again.”

“He would not do that,” Arthur protests indignantly. “He is an honourable man who takes care of all of us. He would still drink his tea.”

The rat shrugs artlessly, nudging Arthur closer to the edge of the drain, and refuses to say anything more. 

“At least do not throw me into the drain.” Arthur is starting to sound frantic, even to himself, and he is teetering on the lip of the drain, a breeze could knock him over. “Surely you can just leave me here; there is no need to drown me.”

The rat tilts his head, regards Arthur thoughtfully, and Arthur thinks he might stand a chance of being saved; at least if he is lying here in the gutter, some passing housemaid might find him and take him back to the kitchen. Then the rat shrugs again. “Hard luck, mate. I known Betty longer’n you, and I ain’t doin’ nuffink that gets her riled.”

And with that, the wicked creature flicks his tail, and Arthur is sent sailing sailing sailing over the edge, splashing into the water below.

“Blimey!” The rat’s voice echoes down to Arthur. “That’s a hell of a splash, that is …”

And then Arthur hears the rat no more, as he is swept along by the current.

~*~

Arthur is lucky in that he plunged into the water bottom first, for he is not as heavy as all that, and he is essentially hollow as well, so he does not sink, but bobs along in the water.

He does not know where this drain empties, but he is afraid that it will be in the Thames; afraid because if that is the case, he is truly lost, for who would notice one steadfast copper coffee pot floating in that great river?

~*~

At length, Arthur is carried under a long plank where the main channel has been boarded over, and out pops a muskrat who lives under the gutter-board. “Passport!” he barks “You must present your passport if you are to proceed further!”

Arthur does not have a passport, of course, and he would not dignify the muskrat’s crude demands with an answer if he did. He can see daylight ahead, where this gutter ends, and although the muskrat follows Arthur along the drain-ledge, shouting, “He has not paid the toll!”, the current is swiftening and the muskrat stands no chance of stopping Arthur.

Arthur is relieved that the muskrat did him no harm, but it is premature, for oh, the sunlight is rushing at him so quickly, and just as he realizes what is happening, the water pours out of the end of the drain and Arthur is sent falling tumbling splashing into the River Thames.

~*~

Much time has passed – he does not know exactly how much – and Arthur is riding low in the river, for he is now half-full of water, and fears that soon he will sink completely.

He is moving along sluggishly when something catches his handle and prevents him from going any further. Surprisingly, he is pulled backwards, tugged into the air, and finds himself flying through the air to land on a wooden surface. Presently he realizes that he is on the deck of a ship, for he can see tall masts and rigging far above him.

“Oi!” a voice calls. “Look here what I’ve caught!”

A little man with white hair and a striped shirt picks him up, turns him upside down to dump out the river-water. “Handsome, innit? Think the cook’d like a proper coffee pot for a change?”

Another man, this one tall and wearing a coat much like Eames’, takes Arthur from the other man. “I say,” he frowns as he examines Arthur carefully, “this looks very like the pot Eames was so proud to have from his Uncle in America. Look, see here – Arthur Foundry. How the devil did this come to be in the Thames?”

~*~

“Good God!” Eames exclaims in delight when the other man presents Arthur to him. The other things in the kitchen are chattering excitedly, greeting Arthur and talking over one another in their impatience to hear his tale, although Brown Betty is darkly silent. “Where the blazes did you find him, Haberly? I’ve been tearing the house apart; I set him on the shelf two nights ago and he simply vanished.”

“One of the men caught _it_ on a line,” Haberly says, with a smile that Arthur thinks meant to be teasing Eames for referring to Arthur as “he”, which Arthur finds vaguely insulting. “Couldn’t tell you how it came to be in the Thames, old man, but I rather thought you would appreciate its swift return.”

“Quite right,” Eames nods, carefully examining Arthur for new damage. “I am very grateful; you know how fond I was of Uncle, and this coffee pot was his most prized possession.”

~*~

Once Haberly has departed, Eames comes back into the kitchen. “Dear Arthur,” he says, picking up Arthur to give him a good cleaning. “I should very much like to know what possessed you to go swimming in the Thames; do you not know that you are made of metal? It is lucky that you did not sink to the bottom straightaway, for then how would I ever have found you?”

Once Arthur is spotless again, Eames immediately sets about preparations for making coffee. “Perhaps you threw yourself into the river from despondency,” Eames teases as he sets Arthur on the stove, “thinking I had forgotten you. But I assure you I had not; I was quite frantic when I found that you had gone.”

Arthur would never have thought any such thing, of course, but as he cannot tell Eames this, he focuses on the flame beneath him, reveling in how it warms first his sides and the water within. He hums to himself happily; he had forgotten how satisfying the process is, and even if Eames never uses him again, he will be grateful for this. And Eames will still talk to him, will still show him off to visitors, for he knows now that he has great value to Eames, even if he is just a common copper coffee pot.

“There we are,” Eames says, taking Arthur off the flame. The beat-up tin mug from the cupboard sits waiting on the sideboard, grousing to himself about the kind of man who puts sugar and milk in his coffee; Eames pours coffee into the mug (who stops complaining) stirs the contents carefully, and peers inside. “Let us hope that I have managed a cup of proper coffee.”

Something wrenches Arthur, yanks at his chest and squeezes his ribs until he is unable to breathe; he gives a choked shout, hears the teapots and all the kitchen calling out in alarm, flails his arms about, hits the floor, hard, and lays there, heart thumping and head spinning. He can see where his lid still rests under the stove. 

“Bloody hell – “ he hears Eames exclaim, and when his vision clears, Arthur finds himself at the point of the pistol – Eames keeps in the sideboard. “Who the devil are you?”

Arthur throws his arms over his head protectively, and only then does he realize: he has arms. He has arms and legs and a head and a body, and he is no longer a coffee pot. He is a man, wearing faded clothing that once might have been some kind of uniform: tall boots, a linen shirt, suspenders, and a long flowing coat much like the grey-haired man wore.

“Please don’t shoot!” he cries, voice rough and graveled with years of disuse. “Please, sir, I’m sorry – “

“Wait a moment.” There is the oddest look on Eames’ face. “I know you.”

“You…you do?” 

Eames lowers the pistol, and goes down on one knee so that he can see Arthur more closely. “You are my uncle’s lieutentant,” Eames says wonderingly. “He showed me your portrait many times. But how can that be? You have been dead these past thirty years.”

“Dead?” Arthur sits up, moving very slowly, partially so he will not startle Eames, partially because he is not used to being able to move. “But I am not dead – am I?”

“He saw you go over the side of the airship,” Eames replies, puzzlement warring with fascination in his expression. “There was a great enchantment storm over the Captivating Sea. You were trying to save a midshipman, but once you had pulled that young man back aboard, the ship was tossed again and over you went.”

Some dim memory is stirring in the back of Arthur’s mind. He remembers being bombarded by rain so fierce that he could barely see a foot in front of his nose; he recalls a hand clinging desperately to his, voices calling out warnings and other hands helping him pull a crewmate to safety. The ship had pitched hard, and Arthur had been knocked off his feet. He had flailed about wildly in an attempt to stop himself from sliding over the edge, but had only managed to catch hold of a copper coffee pot which was rolling past him down the deck, and after that, he remembers only being set over an open flame, filled with water and ground coffee. 

He tells this to Eames, who listens with far more attention and far less doubt than Arthur would have expected, and when he has finished speaking, Eames regards him thoughtfully. 

“There have always been tales of strange happenings over the Captivating Sea,” he muses, sitting fully on the floor. “On it as well, make no mistake. And enchantment storms are capricious things. Do you know, I once saw an enchantment storm off the coast of Prioli transform the jolly boat into a pig?” He nods for emphasis. “Two hours later it turned back into the jolly boat, mind, and we were all sad at the loss of a hearty meal, but I and all my men saw it with our very own eyes.”

Arthur is not certain the point Eames is trying to make, for he is out of practice thinking as a man, and he is also distracted by the heavy feel of his newly-regained limbs, by the brush of his hair on the back of his neck. 

Eames has fallen silent and is staring at Arthur as he taps his fingers on his knee. “You were quite my idol when I was a young lad,” Eames reveals unexpectedly, in a manner that is almost bashful. “It all sounded very heroic, you saving that midshipman with no regards as to your own safety.”

Arthur is startled into a chuckle, and is rewarded by a delighted smile from Eames, which fills him with an unfamiliar warmth. “I did not feel heroic,” he admits, and it is the truth, even if he has only just recalled it. “I was fearful of losing a man, and fearful that I would be dropped into the sea to be eaten by a kraken.”

“Only a fool would not be fearful in those circumstances,” Eames reassures gravely. “And I will tell you that your bravery was a great inspiration to me. More than once, when I found myself in dire straits, I have thought, ‘How would Lieutentant Arthur behave, were he in this situation?”

Arthur is so surprised by this that he forgets to wonder why his face has suddenly gone warm. “Is that my name after all?” he asks, trying not to seem too eager. “Arthur?”

Eames blinks. “Do you not remember? But I suppose it would make a kind of sense, if ever enchantments make sense. I wonder ….” He narrows his eyes, pondering. 

“You wonder?” Arthur prods.

“I wonder if Uncle knew all along that the coffee pot was you,” Eames says. “You were the one belonging he took everywhere with him, we all commented on it. He knew of my great regard for you, and would have been certain that you would be well-treated, if he left you to me.” Eames suddenly gives himself a little shake. “But I apologize; of course he did not leave _you_ to me, only the coffee pot.”

He points; Arthur follows the gesture with his eyes to see that self-same coffee pot lying next to him, and his heart is filled with gladness, for the coffee pot is the only home he remembers, and he would not like to have it vanish. He picks it up, and examines it closely, for if he has ever seen it from this perspective, he does not recall. The bottom no longer reads “Arthur Foundry”; there is no maker’s mark at all. Remembering, he leans forward and stretches his arm under the stove to retrieve the lid; he will have to find a new pin for the hinge.

“You are, of course, welcome to stay here as long as you like.”

The tone as much as his words make Arthur glance up sharply, for there is a note of hesitancy to Eames’ voice which Arthur has never heard before. 

“I would not want to impose,” Arthur says uncertainly; he would like to accept the offer out of pragmatism if nothing else, for where would he go, if he did not stay here? He is thirty years out-of-step with the times, and likely all the people he knew are dead, or would not believe Arthur was the man they once knew. But there are other things making him want to accept as well, such as the line of Eames’ calf under white hose. “You were not expecting a house-guest when your uncle left this pot to you.”

Eames smiles, a careful thing with a great deal behind it that Arthur cannot read. “You would not be an imposition, Arthur,” he says, standing. “As I have said, I have always thought very highly of you, and it would be an honour to be able to help you settle into being a man again.” He holds out his hand to help Arthur up from the floor. “If you will allow it.”

There is a glint of what Arthur thinks might be hopefulness in Eames’ eyes, although he is out of practice gauging such things. He finds that he has been holding his breath, and lets it all out in a soundless rush. 

“Of course I will allow it,” he says, tucking the coffee pot under one arm, and accepting Eames’ outstretched hand. “You have taken such good care of me thus far, have you not?”

Eames’ smile is as warm and strong as his hand as he pulls Arthur to his feet. “I am glad you think so,” he says, steadying Arthur when he sags slightly; his legs are unused to holding weight and he is wobbly as a newborn-colt. “You _will_ tell me how you came to be in the Thames, will you not?”

Arthur laughs, and the light in Eames’ eyes becomes sharper, tinged with something more complicated than mere hope. “I will,” he agrees, leaning on Eames’ broad shoulder for support, “although I doubt you will believe me.”

“Of course I will believe you,” Eames says softly in Arthur’s ear, and Arthur shivers. “I have seen a jolly boat turned into a pig, and a coffee pot turned into a hero who had been thought dead for thirty years. I will believe anything.”

As if from a great distance, Arthur thinks he hears the voices of the teapots, the stove, the cookware, the coffee grinder. He looks over his shoulder at Brown Betty, and concentrates with all his might, but he can not hear anything from her. He has a childish impulse to put his tongue out at her, but of course he does not.

“Do you …could you hear me, when I spoke to you?” Eames asks, forehead creasing. “When you sat on the shelf?”

Arthur turns to him, and smiles. “We all could,” he says. “And I for one found it very pleasing.”

Eames looks elated as a boy. “Well then,” he says, “you have me at a disadvantage, for you know a great deal about me, and I know only of your service with my uncle. Surely there is more to you that I have not heard.”

“That may be,” Arthur answers, the corner of his mouth quirking in an almost-smile. “But I am afraid that I do not remember much of anything right now, other than being a coffee pot.”

“Perhaps you will remember,” Eames says as he begins to lead Arthur out of the kitchen. “Or perhaps you would like to start over completely.” That tentative note has returned to his voice; that hopeful gleam has reappeared in his eyes, blue-green as the sea from above.

Arthur’s smile grows from almost to complete. “I think,” he says, meeting Eames’ gaze directly, and is warmed by what he sees there, “I should enjoy that very much.”


End file.
